


Just What the Doctor Ordered

by Kacka



Series: Kacka Does a Thing [5]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, doctor!clarke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-17 15:00:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9330455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kacka/pseuds/Kacka
Summary: One of Bellamy and Clarke's longest-standing arguments happens to be over which one of them-- the PhD or the MD-- is more of a 'real doctor.' He thinks he's holding his argument pretty well until he goes and gets sick.





	

**Author's Note:**

> prompt from bellonablake on tumblr! sorry it didn’t go up on thursday as planned, this week had a lot of unexpected grandparents in it. hope you like it!

"Think fast."   
  
Bellamy's head whips up just in time to see something arcing through the air towards him. The object bounces off his shoulder and he fumbles to catch it, doubly confused when he sees what it is.   
  
"Huh.” He turns it over like there might be some hidden message. "Thanks, but for future reference, I normally get whatever special's on tap."   
  
"Oh, I got you that too," Clarke says, grinning wide as she slides a drink his way.   
  
"What's this, then?"   
  
"It’s an apple. Roundish fruit, grows on trees, red, sometimes green?"   
  
"I got that much," he says, dry. Like he doesn't have the same shitty sense of humor she does. "I meant, what's it for?"   
  
She smirks and he gets the sense she's finally letting him in on the joke.    
  
"I heard it keeps the doctor away."   
  
Bellamy has to laugh.    
  
He can’t be sure which one of them started the  _ who’s more of a doctor _ argument-- honestly, the chances are good either way-- but it’s exactly the kind of toothless antagonization he’s come to expect with Clarke. She’ll never concede her ground that calling himself a doctor when he’s working toward a PhD instead of an MD is misleading at best and inaccurate at worst, just like he’ll never relent with his argument that he’ll be in school twice as long as she will and earn the title fair and square. 

It doesn’t matter in the end. He has a lot of respect for med students, being the scientifically-challenged student that he is, and a lot of respect for Clarke in particular. They met at Gina’s a few years back, the only two people to show up for Thursday trivia ready to die on any and every hill if it meant earning their team a point. She was far and away the only other person in the bar who was remotely as competitive as he is, not to mention smart and beautiful and in possession of the kind of sense of humor that led to a lot of good-natured teasing.

Somehow, arguing matches over nuances in their answers became sharing a basket of fries and exchanging trash talk. (Gina may have given them a talking-to about keeping the volume down, but that’s neither here nor there.) All of a sudden, Thursday nights are the bright spot that he looks forward to all week.

He enjoys the game, likes drinking with his friends, needs the time to unwind, but it’s really Clarke who makes the night shine. He suspects she feels the same, though due to the bickering-based nature of their friendship, neither of them are likely to admit it. 

"Most anything will keep a doctor away if you throw it at them," he points out, tossing the fruit back to her. "Is this you finally admitting I'm a real doctor?"   
  
"No, I’m giving you the apple to  _ use _ " she says, handing it back to him. "To keep me away. Then your team might stand a fighting chance for once.”

"Where’s the fun in that?” He asks, smirking. “I want the fair fight.”

“So you feel better about losing?”

“So I get to see the look of chagrin on your face when we’re crowned the victors.”

"Refresh my memory." She taps her chin in mock thought. "Which one of us is the reigning trivia champ?" 

"Don't get too comfortable on that throne, Princess. It may be a good look for you but I have a feeling this is gonna be our week."   
  
She hums and holds eye contact as she takes a slow sip of her drink, her gaze purposeful and, if he’s reading her right, a little heated. When she swallows, his eyes are drawn to the line of her throat, and then to the curl of her lips.   
  
"Care to make it interesting?" 

His eyes flicker to hers. "What did you have in mind?"   
  
"Dinner next Thursday. This week's winner picks the restaurant, loser picks up the tab."   
  
A smile grows on his face as he thinks it over. "Either way it's a date?"   
  
She wets her lip. "That's the general idea, yeah."   
  
"In that case… I’m in." He raises his glass. "May the best doctor win."   
  
Her smile is brilliant. "Thanks for that vote of confidence."   
  
"You're lucky you're cute, Griffin."   
  
"Right back at you, Blake."   
  
His skin buzzes all night, spurred on every time he catches her gaze across the room, every time she tosses him a gloating smile or a petulant glare, every time they race to get their team’s answers to Gina (despite the fact that time has no impact on their score). They both up their game, as it it matter more who wins this week than usual. In reality, this is probably the only week Bellamy wouldn't mind losing.   
  
Clarke’s team pulls out the victory, leaving him to amble up next to her when she’s at the bar collecting her winnings.   
  
“Well played,” he offers, sliding in beside her a little closer than normal. She leans into him every so slightly, her shoulder resting against his chest.    
  
"Thanks. I see what you meant about the fair fight though." She smirks. "Makes the victory that much sweeter."   
  
"Yeah, yeah," he grumbles, unable to keep a straight face with the way she's practically glowing, how she's looking up at him through her lashes, her finger circling the rim of her glass. "So where can I pick you up Thursday?"   
  
"You're picking me up?" She asks, delighted.   
  
"Not in a car or anything, but-- it's a date, right? That means I get to walk you wherever we're going." 

He wills himself not to flush. As it is, he only gets Clarke for an hour a week; if she's offering more time with her, he's going to take as much as she's willing to give him. He  _ likes _ her. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. 

"Yeah," she says, biting her lip on a smile. "I guess it does. You can meet me at Mecha Hall? I get out of class at four thirty."   
  
He grins and raps his knuckles on the bar, full of anticipatory energy and lacking other places to put it.    
  
"I'll be there," he promises.

She ducks her head, like she also might be trying to hide how overexcited she is. His stomach swoops pleasantly at the thought.

“Cool,” she says, sounding anything but. “I can’t wait.”

* * *

It doesn't occur to him until later that he should have gotten her number.    
  
His texting style is pretty pragmatic-- short messages that convey only the most necessary information-- but a full week stands between him and their date, and the waiting is getting to him. 

He can't remember the last time he had the urge to text someone just because he wants to  _ chat _ , but he opens new messages several times on instinct before his brain catches up and reminds him that he doesn’t have her contact info. He even considers creating a Facebook account, but decides his urge to talk to her is ultimately overshadowed by the grief he knows Octavia would give him about it.   
  
It's just a week, he tells himself. He can go a week without talking to Clarke. He does it all the time. He doesn't  _ need _ to talk to Clarke, he just  _ wants _ to. There's no reason to resort to drastic measures.   
  
  


Until he comes down with a stomach bug.

“Today of all days,” he mutters the third time he gets up to make the mad dash for the toilet. At this point he’s pretty much given up on getting a good night’s rest and has dragged his blanket and pillow into the bathroom with him.

Even as he heaves, the thing running on a loop in his mind is not how he’ll have to send out a mass email cancelling his office hours, and it’s not to wonder when the last time he cleaned his bathroom floor was. It’s that in twelve hours, he’s supposed to be going on a date with a girl he really likes, and he has no way to let her know that he might not be able to make it.

Most of the day passes in a haze as he drifts in and out of sleep. He’s not both awake and lucid for very long stretches of time, but he is able to move from the bathroom to the couch once there’s nothing left in his stomach to throw up.

By the time the afternoon rolls around, the idea of going to meet Clarke, just to let her know he probably wouldn’t be much fun on a date tonight, doesn’t seem all that ridiculous. 

For one thing, it’s been in the forefront of his mind for the past hundred and sixty hours (he may have done the math around the same time he noticed he didn’t have any way to text her). 

For another, he’s never been one to stay home when he’s sick, a habit that has carried over from growing up in need of scholarships and every last part-time hour he could get. If he can physically stand, he’s going to work, or to class, or-- in this case-- to meet Clarke.

What clenches the decision is knowing that she’d be hurt if he didn’t show. He’d be standing her up, and that’s the last thing he wants to do. If nothing else, she at least needs to know that much.   
  
Getting over to Mecha is a feat to be marveled at. He has to stop more than once to catch his breath or stave off a wave of nausea or dizziness. It comes as no surprise that once he gets there, he promptly collapses onto a bench, squeezing his eyes shut and willing his fogged-up brain to make it through the next half hour before giving out on him entirely.

He doesn't know how long he sits there with his eyes closed, or whether he ever actually drifts off, but the next thing he knows, he's being jolted back to reality by a cool hand on his forehead.

It’s simultaneously a relief and an acute humiliation to find Clarke crouching next to him with a tender expression on her face. She’s absolutely, unequivocally the best thing he’s ever seen, and he’s passed out on a bench, probably smelling like vomit.

"Hey," he croaks. She smiles, soft.   
  
"Hey." Her hand on his forehead moves to push his hair out of his eyes, and he realizes belatedly that the world is sideways. At some point he must have laid down. "You look like shit."   
  
"You look pretty," he says, closing his eyes against another bout of lightheadedness. "Hot date tonight?"   
  
"You could say that," she laughs. She has the best laugh. "Right now I think he's running well over a hundred degrees. Bellamy, you should really be in bed."   
  
"I didn't want to stand you up."   
  
He thinks she pauses at this, but it's hard to be sure when he's so out of it. "Did you take anything for it?"   
  
Shaking his head hurts, so he stops pretty quickly. "Couldn't keep anything down."   
  
"So you walked halfway across campus on an empty stomach, probably dehydrated, all to tell me you couldn't make it to dinner."   
  
"I can still buy yours," he says, confused. She's not wrong about what happened, he just doesn't understand the question, if there is one. "I'm good for it."   
  
"No way. I'm taking you home." Her hand leaves his hair and he whimpers a little, sounding pathetic even to his own ears. "I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere."   
  
"Couldn't if I wanted to."   
  
He manages to push himself into a sitting position while she's gone and rubs at his face, wincing at the sheen of sweat he finds there. He doesn't  _ feel _ that warm. He actually feels kind of cold.    
  
When she returns, she's got a huge, bearded guy in tow. He looks Bellamy over with a practiced eye and sighs, slipping one arm under Bellamy's and helping him up. Clarke slips in on Bellamy's other side, not quite supporting his weight but steadying him.   
  
"Where are we going?" He asks, bewildered.   
  
"Nyko has a car," she says, her hand firm on his side. She fits nicely there, he notices. "He's gonna give us a ride back to your place."   
  
"Oh. Thanks."   
  
"No problem. I didn't want to be studying anyway."   
  
"I hear that.” He pauses. “So I’m guessing you’re a med student too?”

“I’m in the same program as Clarke, but a year ahead.”

“So he’s even more of a doctor than either of us,” Bellamy says, and Clarke snorts softly.

“Don’t ask,” she advises, when Nyko shoots her a look.

To his surprise, Clarke climbs into the backseat beside him and holds his hand all the way to his apartment. It's less than a ten-minute drive, but it feels longer, which is nice.    
  
He manages to get in the building and to the elevator without Nyko's help, though Clarke hovers nearby with each step. When they make it to his door, he leans against it, telling her, "I think I can make it to my bed from here."   
  
"I'm not leaving you alone," she scoffs, taking his keys and getting the door open. He's surprised he was even able to lock it in the first place. "You're clearly a mess. You need some guidance. And electrolytes. Got any Gatorade?"   
  
"Uh, yeah, I think there's some in the fridge."   
  
She steers him to the couch and pushes him gently until he's stretched across it. "Good. I'll go get that and something for your fever. You try not to fall asleep just yet."   
  
He cues up Netflix, the brightness of the screen and the awareness of Clarke nearby enough to keep him awake for a little while longer. When she comes back in, she perches on the edge of the coffee table, watching as he obediently takes the pills and downs the blue drink.   
  
"I found a can of soup. It's heating up now."   
  
He places a hand on her knee. "Did you know you're the best?"   
  
"I've been trying to convince people for years."   
  
"Yeah, well you are," he says, groggy. "Trust me, I'm a doctor."   
  
"I'll let you have that just this once, since you're sick," she teases. "Although it's good that you know a  _ real _ doctor. One who kind of knows what she's doing in situations like this."   
  
He starts to answer, but something happens in his throat-- the telltale warning signs-- and suddenly he's moving faster than he even thought possible, trying to get to the bathroom before he hurls on the carpet.   
  
He makes it, barely, his knees aching as they hit the tile hard. And then Clarke is there, rubbing his back soothingly and murmuring things he can't make out.    
  
"I'm sorry," he says when it's all over, resting his forehead against the cold porcelain.   
  
"About what?"   
  
"Being disgusting. And ruining our date."   
  
"You don't have to be sorry, it's not like you could control it. Besides, do you know how many people's fluids I deal with every day? Because I’m studying to be an actual doctor."   
  
Bellamy shudders, spitting into the toilet, his stomach empty again.    
  
"You should give me your number," he says, and she laughs.   
  
"Is hearing about my experiences with fluids a turn-on for you?"   
  
"No," he half laughs, amazed that she’s sitting next to him on his bathroom floor, cracking jokes instead of running away as fast as she can. "It’s just been at the top of my priority list for the past week. Now I'm hoping next time I can text you so you don’t have to see me like this.”

"Next time, huh?" She scratches lightly with her fingernails and a different kind of shiver runs down his spine.   
  
"I'm hoping I haven't completely ruined my chances with you."   
  
"Nah," she says fondly, and she's smiling at him when he wrenches his eyes open. "Not completely."

When the storm has passed, they get him back to the couch. Clarke bundles him in blankets and tells him to lie down, disappearing to the kitchen and returning with a wet cloth.

“Sit up a tiny bit,” she orders, prodding at him until he does so and then sliding in underneath so that his head is resting in her lap. When the cloth touches his skin, he shivers again. 

“Cold.”

“I put it in the fridge.” She spreads it over his forehead, smoothing down the edges with her thumb. “Feel good?”

He nods, his eyes drooping already.

“Good,” she says softly, grabbing the TV remote. The sound stutters as she casts about for a good channel, and he can tell when she lands on one she likes because she chuckles, voice low.

“What are we watching?”

“ _ I’m _ watching Jeopardy! to keep my skills sharp for next week.  _ You’re _ watching the inside of your eyelids.”

“Good. You need all the practice you can get.”

When she laughs, it shakes his head on her lap. Which is not great for the wooziness. 

“Hey, Clarke?”

“Hmm.”

“Thanks for taking care of me.”

“It’s what doctors do,” she teases lightly. It might even get him to smile a little.

“Yeah, but-- you didn’t have to. So thanks.”

One of her hands finds one of his in the blankets and she gives it a squeeze. “Anytime.”

* * *

"So do I have to call you  _Doctor_  now?"

He laughs and tugs her in for a long kiss. Graduating with his doctorate feels like such a bigger deal than any of his graduations before, not least of all because he set a very different, personal deadline for himself today.

"I don't hate the idea," he admits. "Can you stomach it?"

"For the rest of the week at least," Clarke teases, looping her arms around his neck. "I think you might really enjoy it in conjunction with a couple of the graduation gifts I have in store for you."  She presses her hips against his purposefully and he has to put physical space between them before he ruins all of the graduation day pictures Octavia will no doubt insist upon taking.

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure I'm gonna like that," he says, gruff. "But later. Please."

"Fine." She grins. "I guess we're  _both_ real doctors now."

"According to this piece of paper they gave me, yeah." He pauses, his heart hammering, but-- he told himself he'd do it. No chickening out now. He runs his hands up her arms until she gets the hint and laces her fingers with his, letting more space fall between them. 

"Doctor Blake," he says, letting the words roll off his tongue. 

Clarke smiles and squeezes his hands. "Has a nice ring to it."

"You think?"

"Absolutely."

"Good." He reaches in his pocket, pulling out the box that-- for all it's smaller than his phone-- has been weighing heavy in his pocket all day. "Because I was thinking... you could be Doctor Blake too."

Her eyes grow wide as he opens the lid. They've been dating for years; it wouldn't have been unreasonable of her to suspect he had a ring, and they've talked enough about wanting to get married he isn't worried about her answer, but it is kind of satisfying to see the expression on her face.

"What do you think?" He prompts, when she doesn't say anything. "You want a speech? Want me to get down on one knee? Make a scene? You know I'll do it."

Her laugh is shaky when she bypasses the ring to pull him in. 

"I don't want to be Clarke Blake," she breathes against his lips when she starts smiling too wide to keep the kiss up. "It's--"

"Awful," he agrees. "You don't have to take my name."

"Glad we agree on that," she laughs, pulling back and running her fingers over the stone. "Did I say yes yet?"

"Not in so many words."

He slips it on her finger, both of them unable to do much more than stare at it for a long moment.

"Doctor Griffin-Blake sounds pretty good too," she muses, leaning into his chest.

He wraps a hand around her waist and kisses her temple.

"I could live with being Doctor Griffin-Blake," he muses. "Even the playing field. Settle the argument once and for all."

"You wish," she teases, but she still sounds choked up. "We'll be having that argument the rest of our lives."

"Sounds good to me," he says softly.

"Yeah," she agrees, smiling up at him in a moment he knows he'll always remember. "It really does."


End file.
